


Widow's Weeds

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Denial, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 22:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15059042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: When Lord Stark dies, Theon sees the vultures swoop in.





	Widow's Weeds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 2 of asoiaf rarepairs week, the prompt: jealousy.

Theon was not expecting to notice it. There are far more important things to worry about right now, with the realm at war, the North rising up against the southerners that have occupied and oppressed them for so long (or so they say, and Theon feels an odd wave of history repeating then), and himself once more a misplaced pawn in an ever shifting power game. All things considered, there is no reason to notice how, the moment they get news that Lord Stark has lost his head, the men start flocking to Lady Stark like flies to a carcass.

They try and be subtle about it, at first, not wanting to seem disrespectful to their liege's memory. Lords Umber, Karstark, the rest of them all line up to impart their most sincere condolences personally. Young heirs, some no older than Robb, seem to appear by her side as if by magic, impressing upon her their chivalry. Lady Catelyn, for her part, thanks them all with that effortless politeness she has always carried, but she looks exhausted by the attention, wanting nothing more than to be alone with her grief.

Theon watches and feels a wave of rage crashing over him, wanting nothing more than to smack any man who comes near her, to tell them to leave the poor woman be. But he knows Lady Stark, and can just imagine her glare of fierce admonishment: they're at war, and Robb's forces need unity if they're ever going to win. Why would Theon cause such ruckus for so little reason?

Besides, before he knows it he's by her side too, offering his hand to help her over a muddy patch of earth, even when he knows she doesn't need it. So who is he to judge?

It's Lord Bolton who spells it out for him, a man who seems bizarrely uninterested in such things. “I see they're all going to harass the poor widow again,” he says as a meeting ends and the rest of Robb's bannermen filter out, sounding quite amused by the whole thing. “Lady Stark does handle it quite gracefully, I must say.”

Theon, who is never any good in these meetings and was just about to go find a drink and a camp follower to distract himself from the tedium (and the lingering sense of being a child playing a man's game) looks up at Bolton, puzzled. Lord Bolton does not smile at him when he sees Theon's confusion, because Bolton doesn't smile at anything, but there is a wicked spark in his eye.

“I suppose you cannot blame them,” Bolton says. “After all, she is now free to wed again, although you would wish to wait awhile, for propriety's sakes. Still, she would be a most valuable prize, the mother of the King in the North. His Grace is quite close to her. Her husband might find himself half a king as well.”

Theon says nothing, letting Bolton disappear while he struggles to take in the words. Yes, he noticed all the men hovering about Lady Catelyn, but he assumed that was because she was the only highborn woman in the camp. Marriage, really? Before she's even seen her husband's bones? What sort of man would even consider that now?

(What sort of man indeed.)

It comes up in a late night conversation with Robb – not a strategy meeting, exactly, but these days Robb's thoughts rarely stray too far from the topic (in all honesty, he's become something of a bore, though under the circumstances Theon shouldn't judge). “I should think of some task for my mother,” murmurs Robb over a sip of ale. “Send her away.” And Theon, who's had more to drink than Robb has and is starting to feel the effects, is surprised by how his stomach seems to drop right out of his belly at those words. _Why?_ he wonders. Robb loves his mother, he's always loved his mother. “I – I don't like the way the men in this camp look at her.”

Oh. That's why. He wants to protect her. Theon's lingering anger suddenly swamps him again. “Fucking vultures,” he spits so viciously some of his spittle lands in his cup. “The poor woman's bed is barely cold, how can they – how can they even think about her like that?”

Then, Robb looks at him. He almost glares. Those eyes, those big blue eyes – just like his mother's. “How indeed,” he says, and Theon feels like the wind has come and knocked him to the ground.

* * *

The room is small, but warm, cozy, a hearth blazing and helping melt away any reluctance either of them might have to get their clothes off. There must have been a bedding party earlier, but Theon hears no trampling footsteps or obnoxious guffaws outside their door. It's like they're alone. It's like there's no man in the world for her but him.

Theon finds himself strangely shy, and tries to remember the last time he felt that way when he bedded a woman. Then again, she is not any woman. He looks up and finds Lady Stark – Lady Greyjoy now – smiling at him, softly, fondly. Almost the same way she smiles at her children.

Some part of Theon's mind is aware this is all wrong: that Lady Catelyn, while always perfectly kind to him, has never been overwhelmed with affection toward her ward. But he ignores it, too wrapped up in the moment, in his dream of being her perfect husband. He steps forward and reaches for the white nightdress she wears, and watches as it disappears, parting like the clouds, like he is the sun reaching through them.

A red flush to match her hair comes to her cheeks when he sees her naked, and she folds her hands over her belly, seemingly embarrassed by the stretch marks and excess weight, all the evidence of the years she has over him. Theon won't have it though. Gently, he pushes her hands away, and smiles when she looks up at him in confusion. True, she is not the sort of girl he would usually bed, silly and foolish and fawning over him. But she is not just one more conquest, to be enjoyed and then forgotten. She is to be his _wife_.

And he knows Lady Catelyn. She is a headstrong woman. A stubborn woman. A woman who does not give her affections too easily, but when she does, they never die. If Theon has made her love him, then he must have earned that love, somehow.

When he kisses her it all seems so easy. They melt together, like how the river meets the sea. A part of Theon does remember his captor and guardian, and feels a lingering guilt or pride over having taken the man's wife, but he does promise Lord Stark, in whatever northern heaven he's gone to, he will take very good care of her.

They fall onto the bed and Catelyn moans as he pushes his way inside her. He indulges the thought that she's enjoying this, that he has something to give her. A handsome young man, wicked and wild, so unlike cold Lord Stark, who seemed so much older than his years. Their kisses are rough and messy, but Theon can't pull away, like they've been sealed together, a bond much stronger, much purer than what any lack of blood on the sheets would give away.

* * *

Theon wakes on the lumpy straw mattress of wartime, his prick hard and a lump in his throat. As reality comes back to him, he gets hit with guilt, guilt he tries to assure himself he has no reason to feel. It's not the first time he's dreamt of fucking a woman he shouldn't. It's not even the first time he's dreamt of fucking Lady Catelyn.

After all, he knows she doesn't like him, would never spread her legs for him. So what difference does it make?

He groans and pulls himself out of bed, reaching for a pitcher of water. He drinks and walks across his small tent, poking door open and wincing at the dawn sunlight that comes flooding into his eyes.

(He didn't just dream of fucking her, he dreamt of marrying her. That's the difference it makes).

Idly, Theon massages his cock as he adjusts to the morning light. He'll go find some camp follower as soon as he can be arsed getting his purse, and have her attend his needs. He'll focus on her tits, her hair, her arse while getting off, and forget all about his dream.

(About being wanted. About being admired. About being loved.)

He smells copper in the air. He knows there was no battle last night, but still, maybe the whole land will start stinking of blood soon. He'll be back home, the cyvasse piece moved once more, and Lady Catelyn will be on a task of her own, conducting diplomacy in the south, with no time to stop and grieve.

(Lord Stark is still there with them, always, Theon can just smell him. He can feel those cold grey eyes bearing holes in his back.)

Over the red morning, Theon hears birds squawk obnoxiously loudly. He wrinkles his nose with distaste.

“Fucking vultures.”

 


End file.
